Perfect Princess
by rainbow.scribbles
Summary: -But when you look at the girl in the mirror, you know she's happy. Because she's wearing a smile. Never mind that it's a fake one. A smile is a smile.- Tawni-centric.


**Perfect Princess**

In your first memory, you're only a few years old.

Your new dress flares when you spin, the flowers whirling around you in a blur of bright colors.

You feel absolutely beautiful.

When your mother enters the room, phone in hand with the scent of Chanel trailing behind her, you eagerly begin to twirl again.

"Look, Mommy, I'm - "

"Don't spin, princess, you'll mess up your hair."

"But Mommy, look how - "

"Mommy can't talk right now, princess."

"But my dress, it's so - "

"Later, alright? Mommy loves you."

Your mother kisses you on the cheek hurriedly before walking out the door, dialing a phone number immediately.

Hurt, you look down at your dress again.

Maybe it isn't so lovely after all.

You begin to twirl once more, slower, and the fabric still rises up in a swirl of flowers.

As you turn, you catch sight of yourself in the full-length mirror.

Your curls are a little messier, a little untamed, a little less than perfect.

Immediately, your hand flies to your hair, smoothing and pulling at it with your fingers.

When it's closer to how it was before, you place a hand on your hip and look at your reflection.

Something is missing.

You automatically smile brightly, pretending there's a camera.

It's still not quite right somehow.

But when you look at the girl in the mirror, you know that she's happy.

Because even if her hair isn't in expertly executed ringlets, even if her patterned dress is slightly askew, even if her pose is artificial, she's wearing a smile.

Never mind that it's a fake one. A smile is a smile.  
_  
Five years later._

You wonder if you're intelligent.

If maybe, perhaps if you had been born as someone else, you would have been a doctor. A scientist. A lawyer. A professor.

But it's useless, really. Because you're Tawni Hart, and she doesn't go to school.

Because you're Tawni Hart, and she's an actress.

Because you're Tawni Hart, and everyone knows that people like her don't know anything.

So you giggle for the camera.

You laugh artificially at jokes that don't make sense.

You pretend that clothes are your life.

And soon enough, they are.

There's something special about trying on new clothes.

They're different. Fresh. Beautiful. With no memories associated with them.

When you slip on the jeans, you know that they fit perfectly.

"Hey, mom, what do you think - "

"Hush, princess, I'm trying to negotiate this deal for you."

"Can't you just - "

"No, this is really important, princess."

"But these jeans are - "

"Princess!"

Your mother shouts the last word angrily, finally looking up at you and your jeans.

She lets her eyes take in every aspect of your appearance, from the strand of hair on your shoulder to the scuffs at the tips of your Converse.

"What do you - " you begin to ask with a smile, before she holds up a finger to cut you off, pressing a button and lifting the phone to her ear.

"Hello? Yes, it's Tammy. Hi. It's time for us to draw up a nutrition plan for my daughter, she needs to lose some weight before the photo shoot next week."

Your jaw drops, shocked by her reaction.

"Oh, princess? Take those off, alright?"

"But they fit fine," you protest, feeling tears rise in your throat. She beckons you over and checks the tag, looking at the size of the jeans.

"No. Definitely not. They're way too big. Take them off and go eat some celery, alright? Go on now. You have to look pretty to be a princess."

And oh, God, it hurts. You blink back tears as you leave the room, sniffing. Because maybe you're just not good enough.

You swear you'll never let yourself feel that way again.  
_  
Three years later._

You're sick of auditions.

You've done so many of them over the years, so many times you've dressed up and smiled for the cameras.

Last week was this drama called _Mackenzie Falls_. Your old costar was at auditions too. You wonder if he made it.

You didn't. Your mom is furious. She's on the phone with Mr. Condor right now, setting up an audition for another one of his shows.

"Princess? Grab the usual, we're going to your audition now."

You silently pick up the accessories bag filled with makeup and jewelry and everything little girls dream of, and head to the car.

On your way to the studios, your mom touches up your face expertly, applying mascara through the streets of Hollywood without a single wrong flick.

"Alright, princess, now this audition is - "

"_Very important_," you recite dully.

"Yes. Because this show - "

_"Could finally be the one that makes you a star."  
_  
"And princess, if you become a star, you'll be able to - "

"_Look beautiful and have everyone adore me_."

You glance up at her, wondering if she's realized yet that you're not quite as excited as she is.

She reaches forward and twirls a lock of your hair around her manicured finger, tightening the curl.

"There. Make your mommy proud, princess."

You tug away ever so slightly, turning to look out the window.

"This means everything to you," she reminds your back, pressing keys on her phone frantically.

_No_, you think to yourself. _No. It's everything to **you**._

"Tawni Hart?" When the bald man asks you to begin, you stare blankly for a moment. What? No specific instructions?

You smooth down your dress and plaster a smile on your face before beginning the song for the hundredth time.

"**I'm a little teapot, short and stout**."

_Five years later._

There's this front that you've built up over the years, a protective shield.

You're perfect to the public. You're gorgeous. Vivacious. A paparazzi princess.

To the people you work with, it's more complicated. You brush them off, trying for the most part to keep yourself emotionally distant.

It isn't too hard; you'll share a few laughs at times, but none of it really matters. You're entirely too self-absorbed to pay attention to them.

Or so you've led them to believe.

Then she comes along.

She takes your place like that. Star of the show. Girl in all the headlines. Media darling. Cheerful, pleasant, helpful Sonny.

Her first week on the show is disastrous. For you, anyway.

So many things go wrong. So many catastrophes, all of them tracing back to her.

But who cares? No one. She's all that matters now.

"Princess, I'm calling Marshall right now to demand that you get more airtime. We can't have this newcomer stealing your spotlight!"

You roll your eyes as you apply your Mocho Cocoa Mocho in the mirror, ignoring your mother as you now try to.

"Princess, this is serious. You can't let people start liking her more than you. This could be the end of your career."

"What a shame that would be," you comment drily, flipping your hair with the patented Tawni Hart flick.

"Yes! Princess, you have to make wise career choices, otherwise - "

"You mean, _you_ have to make them," you correct, a hand finding its way to your hip. "I never choose anything."

"Princess, what are you - "

"You know what I mean."

She pauses for a moment. "Anyway, princess, you have to - "

"Stop. Just - just stop. I'm done." You pick up your purse from the couch, swinging it onto your shoulder in one fluid motion.

"Princess, you can't be - "

"I'm through with this. I'm not going to put up with this anymore. You're fired. And I'm moving out."

"But princess, you - "

"Stop calling me that! I'm not a princess, alright? I'm me, Tawni! I'm not perfect! Why can't you see that?"

"Of course you are, princess, you - "

"I hate when people try to control my life. And you've done it for too long."

You watch as her bright red lips part, her jaw dropping before you turn on your heel and saunter out in that perfectly practiced way of making a dramatic exit.

"Is it the new girl, princess? Is that what's making you upset?"

You look over your shoulder, shocked that she thinks this is a temporary decision.

"No. It's not her. It's _you_. It's always been you."

And with that, you close the door behind you and step into the sunlight.

It's a new day.


End file.
